Page 105 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

He never fucking listened.

The tires screeched as I took a hard right onto St. Claude, the Bentley’s suspension protesting as I pushed it through the turn. A delivery truck honked. I didn’t slow down.

My mind was locked on one objective now.

One purpose.

Kaisen thought he could show up at Truth’s house—my woman’s house—and what? Talk his way back into her life? Convince her that his obsession was somehow more noble than mine?

Fuck that.

I’d given him chances.

I’d given him warnings.

Now I was giving him consequences.

The streets narrowed as I entered the Seventh Ward, the houses pressing closer together, the oak trees forming a canopy overhead. I knew this neighborhood. I’d memorized every block, every alley, every rooftop the moment Truth signed the lease.

Mimosa Ct came into view.

I slowed the Bentley, my breathing controlled, my heartbeat steady.

This wasn’t rage.

This was precision.

I parked three houses down from Truth’s brick two-story, positioning the car so I had a clear line of sight but remained out of immediate view. The black Audi sat in her driveway like a fucking insult.

He was already inside.

Or on the porch.

Either way, he was too close.

I popped the trunk and stepped out, my movements smooth and deliberate. No rush. No panic.

Just purpose.

The tactical case sat in the back, matte black and unassuming. I pulled it out, the weight familiar in my hands, and closed the trunk with a soft click.

Across the street, an older apartment building stood—three stories, faded yellow paint, wrought-iron balconies. Perfect elevation. Perfect angle.

I crossed the street with the case at my side, my stride confident, my expression neutral.

A woman was coming out of the building’s front entrance, her arms full of grocery bags. She looked up, saw me, and froze.

I met her eyes.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t explain.

Just held her gaze until she looked away and hurried past me, her keys jangling in her shaking hands.

The door closed behind her, and I caught it before it locked.

Inside, the hallway smelled like old carpet and fried food. A man in a stained undershirt stood in a doorway on the first floor, a beer in his hand, staring at me.